by Vicki Delany
Winters looked toward it. “Are you alone, Mr. Armstrong?”
“Sadly, yes. Have a seat.”
Winters took the only chair in the room. Evans stood by the door, and Armstrong walked to the window. Morning sun shone through gaps in the trees.
“I don’t have much of a fondness for the police.”
“I’m not here to ask for your vote in a popularity contest.”
Armstrong spoke to the window. “I had some problems, back in Vancouver. That’s why I gave up my practice there and moved to Trafalgar. They were personal problems, nothing at all to do with the law. But the cops interfered.”
Mentally Winters rolled his eyes. He’d heard that before—from every abusive husband he’d arrested when he was in uniform. What happened in a man’s home, they insisted, was a private matter.
Armstrong didn’t turn around. “Far as I’m concerned what an adult woman wants to do with an adult man is her business. Women often form a bond with their therapists. And often it’s that bond which gives them the strength to make the changes they need in their lives.”
Over their heads, footsteps crossed the floor of the main house. A radio was switched on. A blast of music, quickly turned down.
“But some people don’t see it that way. Political correctness and all that rubbish. I had a relationship with a client outside of office hours.”
“One client?”
Armstrong pulled at the edges of the drawstring on his pants. “More than one over the years. But only one that matters here. She was a nice lady. Attractive, rich, spoiled. And so sad.” He turned away from the window. Light shone through his thin hair, gray and greasy. He hadn’t shaved yet, and the edges of his goatee were ragged. Winters couldn’t possibly imagine why a wealthy, mature woman would find Julian Armstrong attractive. But as he, John Winters, wasn’t a wealthy, mature woman, his opinion was of no consequence.
Armstrong sat down, heavily, on the unmade sofa bed. Springs squeaked. He turned his head back toward the window.
Winters admired the décor. Late eighties cheap. Other than the furniture there wasn’t much to look at. The art on the walls was tasteless and mass-produced; the counter in the kitchen alcove was piled high with dirty dishes. Silence stretched between them. Outside a car engine came to life, and someone shouted to someone else to “hurry the hell up, or I’ll leave without you.” Doors slammed and the car pulled away. Far down the mountain, an ambulance screamed.
“Her husband, suspecting she was playing outside the school yard, hired someone to follow her. When faced with it, she told him about me. Who I was.” Armstrong said at last.
“That must have been difficult.”
Armstrong jumped to his feet. “Difficult, you don’t know the half of it. The husband’s on the goddamned police board. He was like thirty years older than her. Gave her lots of spending money but not much else except a fist when he couldn’t get it up. Which was most of the time. He wasn’t too pleased to learn that the trophy wife went in search of a bit of outside excitement because she wasn’t getting it at home, was he?” He rubbed his hands across his face. “From then on it was out of control. She gave him the names of her friends who were clients of mine. The husband, let’s call him Mister F, for a word I always think of when I remember him. Well Mister F went to them, leaned on them, made them lay complaints about me. Say that I’d made inappropriate advances.”
“Had you?”
Armstrong went to the kitchen and poured water into a beer-encrusted glass. He didn’t offer his guests a drink. “Them? Hell, no. Credit me with some taste. It was a bit ironic, because the ones who complained weren’t ones I was friends with.”
“You’re saying that this man asked women to lay charges against you knowing that they weren’t true?”
“Yup. That’s what I’m saying.” Apparently water didn’t satisfy the need, because Armstrong reached into his fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. He twisted off the top, tossed the cap into the sink, and took a deep slug. Again, not bothering to offer one to his guests. “They tried to charge me with raping the wife, said I talked her into it by telling her that sex was part of the counseling process. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Guy doesn’t often meet a woman so desperate for it.” He lifted his beer toward Winters. “So I gave it to her. Tell me you wouldn’t have.”
Winters said nothing.
Armstrong took a deep drink. “First examination she fell apart. Prosecution knew they couldn’t put her on the stand. Couldn’t even pretend she was too traumatized to testify, because I had the foresight to keep an e-mail she sent me apologizing for causing so much trouble, saying that her husband threatened to divorce her if she didn’t go to court, and asking when we could meet up again. After all that, she kindly tossed in a highly graphic description as to what she’d like me to do to her at our next meeting. The other lady… well it was her word against mine, and considering that she was lying outright… Case closed.”
“All nice and clean and settled,” Winters said. “So why are you here,” he waved his hand around the cheap room. “In Trafalgar?”
“Look Mr. Winters. I’m going to tell you how it is. Straight. You can believe me or not.” Armstrong rested his hip on the windowsill opposite Winters’ chair. His chin was up and a fire burned in his eyes. “My professional body wasn’t too happy at the threat of legal charges being laid, and, no matter that said charges were dropped, the climate was decidedly chilly.”
He looked at Winters, who had gotten to his feet some time ago. “It was time to leave town. And leave counseling people, women, who could solve most of their life’s problems by throwing enough money at them. Believe it or not, Sergeant, I do want to help people.”
“An interesting story, Mr. Armstrong. But I’m afraid it has nothing to do with the matter at hand. I have more than enough witnesses telling me that you knew Ashley and knew much more than you’re telling me. I’ve no doubt you’re aware that obstruction of justice is a crime.”
“Don’t you understand, man? Mr. F, the policeman’s friend, has his knife sharpened for me. Julian knows a girl who’s died, ergo Julian is the killer and we can call him up before a judge without having to worry about the girl’s emotional state. The firing squad will assemble at dawn.”
“It doesn’t work that way. I’ll lay charges as and when I see fit, whether your Mr. F approves or not.” Armstrong, Winters thought, had been watching far too many conspiracy movies.
The counselor sucked on his bottle of beer.
“Okay, I’ve heard your story of woe. Now tell me about Ashley. Fast. I know you knew her in Vancouver. I know you meant something to her, and I know she saw you here, in Trafalgar. I’m tired of beating about the bush. You make one false statement and we’re off to the cells.”
***
John Winters didn’t like Julian Armstrong. He had no doubt that Armstrong used his position as trusted counselor to lure needy women into his bed. Some women, with money, influence, age even, could handle it. But what about others, more vulnerable?
Armstrong finally admitted that he’d met Ashley in Vancouver. About two years ago, give or take a couple of months. She was a serious heroin addict, but young enough, pretty enough, blond enough, and able to turn the sweet, blushing virgin on at will, that she worked the better hotels and convention centers. Which was where he’d met her. At a convention for the directors of shelters for battered women.
He wasn’t admitting to paying Ashley for her services, and Winters let that go, although cold fingers crept up his spine at the thought that Armstrong went to a feminist conference to pick up abused girls.
“She was unhappy with her pimp,” Armstrong said. “And trying to get away from him. But she was too hooked on the drug to make the break. You know how it is, Sergeant. The pimp controls the supply. He hands it out in doses according to how well she performs.”
Winters knew.
“She asked me to help her. And so I did. The next morning.” Armst
rong coughed, recognizing his mistake. He looked away. Winters wanted to hit the man. Instead he sat in his chair and listened. “I drove her to a shelter for hookers and druggies. They took her in. She was there for a couple of weeks. I checked on her regularly.” Winters could guess at the nature of this checking in. But he still said nothing. If it would take everything he had, he’d see that Julian Armstrong did not set up practice in Trafalgar.
“But then I was… well… called away. Things got busy. And we lost touch. I’m sorry about that. I should have followed up. But you know how it is. Life just gets busy.”
Found an easier screw, Winters interpreted. “And in all that time, she never told you anything about herself. Her name, her family, her hometown?”
“We aren’t the police,” Armstrong said, letting a touch of arrogance creep into his voice. “We don’t pressure. If the girl chooses not to reveal those details, I wouldn’t dream of trying to make her.”
Unlike trying to make her drop her pants.
Winters nodded at Evans, who took down the name of the shelter that had taken Ashley in, and the dates.
“There was one thing,” Armstrong said. “That I heard about later… well, after I got busy with my own practice. Around that time an eager young guy showed up. Right out of school. All set to make the world a better place.” Armstrong almost sneered. Winters had no doubt that Armstrong would hold anyone still in possession of their principles in contempt. “All fresh-faced and full of ideals. Graham Buckingham. Don’t know why I remember the name, except that I have a brother named Graham, and Buckingham, well that’s the palace, so it’s easy to remember. It was a while after, but one day I ran into a woman who worked at the shelter. She told me Buckingham helped Ashley a lot. Got her to make the break, get rid of the pimp, stop taking the drugs.”
Armstrong shrugged. “But, no matter what a great job we do with them, they always go back to the stuff. Never fails.” He gave Winters a grin, like they were long time pals or something. “Addicts and hookers are swimming around at the bottom of the barrel for a reason. What can I say, eh?”
“And then you ran into her again, in Trafalgar?”
“I told you about that. It was at the women’s support centre. Lucky Smith was there. I scarcely recognized Ashley at first. She was looking nice, cleaned up, it suited her, so I guess young Graham Buckingham had accomplished something. Miracles happen. I said hi, and she turned away. If she didn’t want to admit to knowing me, that’s part of client confidentiality, isn’t it? Her choice.”
“What happened the next time you saw her?”
Armstrong opened his mouth to protest. To deny there was a next time. Instead he closed his eyes as well as his mouth and took several deep breaths. “A couple of days later. On Front Street. She was standing outside the bakery when I came out with a croissant for breakfast. No preliminary conversation. No ‘hi, Julian, how’s it been?’ Just told me right out that I was going to help her. I said I didn’t have an office set up yet, but she could make an appointment at the center. She said she didn’t want my professional help. She’d changed since Vancouver, I can tell you. She was much more confident for one thing, held her head up instead of always looking at the ground. She spoke to me, well, as if she were ordering me around.”
Winters found himself feeling pleased at the idea. “Go on.”
“She’d run into some difficulties, she and Miller, and she needed help with someone who knew how the world worked. That’s what she said: ‘how the world worked’.”
“What did she mean by that?”
“I honestly don’t know. Someone came by, a girl with a baby in a stroller and toddler by the hand and stopped to chat. The girl started chattering, on and on. Obviously we couldn’t talk, so Ashley told me she’d explain everything later. I swear to God, there was no later. Next time I heard about her, it was in the paper.”
Winters got to his feet. Time to leave. Being in the same room with Julian Armstrong made him want to have a long, hot shower before touching his wife.
About the only useful thing that Armstrong contributed, and the only thing Winter believed, was that Ashley went into that shelter prepared to do whatever it took to get herself clean, off the streets, and free of her pimp. Julian Armstrong was interested in nothing more than getting his libido satisfied, but his intervention might, just might, have put her on the track to meet someone who could truly help her make the break. According to Dr. Lee’s report, Ashley had, until the overdose that led to her death, been clean for a good long time.
***
As soon as they got back to the office, Winters called the shelter in Vancouver.
He was prepared for a couple of days of phone tag, and hopping from one shelter worker to another. But sometimes the gods are in a good mood, and the woman who answered the phone, after a bit of description, and mentioning that she’d arrived with Julian Armstrong (A snort of “Him!”), remembered Ashley.
“One of our success stories,” she said in a warm voice. “A nice girl. I haven’t heard from her for, oh, must be well over a year. And let me tell you Sergeant, in my line of work that’s a good thing.”
“I’d like to know whatever you know about her,” he said, “But you’ll tell me it’s confidential.”
“As it is.”
“Just one question then. What was her last name?”
“That’s an odd question. But an easy one. Can’t be anything confidential in that, I guess. Watson. I don’t think Ashley was her legal name, but off hand I can’t remember why I thought that. Why are you calling, Sergeant? I do hope she hasn’t fallen back into the old life.”
“No. She didn’t. I can assure you of that. Armstrong mentioned that a man by the name of Graham Buckingham helped Ashley when she was at your center. Do you have a number for him?”
“Oh,” All the warmth and humor left her voice, and he knew what she was going to say before she said it. “Graham, such a dear, died. Not long after Ashley left us, in fact. It was terribly sad. Tragic.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Winters said. “Thank you for your time.”
“We miss him dreadfully. He had a real gift for this work. He was about to get married. I wasn’t able to get to Calgary for his funeral, so I never met the girl, but I would have liked to tell her how much good Graham had done.”
Something niggled at the back of Winters’ mind. Fiancée—Graham—social worker. Wasn’t Graham the name of the man to whom Molly had been engaged? He might mention it to her later.
“I appreciate your help,” Winters said, hanging up. He’d already forgotten Graham Buckingham.
Now that he had a name, he had someplace to start searching. He punched Ashley Watson into the computer and let it do its work. If Julian Armstrong had given them this days ago, he could have saved them a lot of time.
Chapter Twenty-two
Molly Smith watched Graham as he attempted to nail a roof to their house. The house was situated at the very pinnacle of a mountain, and there was so much snow that only the roof stood out. But for some reason Graham needed to secure the roof right now. Molly laughed from inside a tunnel of warm snow.
Graham laughed back. A deep laugh that sounded almost like a dog barking.
It was a dog barking.
Sylvester. Smith punched her pillow, rolled over, and tried to fall back into her dream.
But Sylvester kept barking.
The Smith home was out in the country, situated between a mountain and a river. Lots of wildlife passed through in the night, and sometimes the dog tried to warn them away.
At last the barking stopped. But the gossamer threads leading her to the lovely dream were gone. The first pleasant dream she’d had about Graham in months.
Awake, she could no longer bring his face into focus behind her eyes at will, and asleep he was drifting further and further away. She worried that the day would come when she couldn’t remember why she’d loved him so much.
Her bedside clock read three o’clock. Ti
me for another hot milk.
She scrambled out of bed and crept down the stairs feeling like a jewel thief. Miller was sleeping. There’d be hell to pay if she woke him up.
About half-way down the steps, she heard Sylvester whining. It was his welcome whine. She expected to see him rush across the hall to greet her.
The hinges on the kitchen door squeaked.
She stopped. Other than the nightlight at the top of the stairs, the house was fully dark. The living room blinds were open, but no light came in from outside. Everyone in the Smith family liked to sleep without a trace of light. Only once Miller took up nightly residence in her parents’ bedroom had Lucky dug a nightlight out of the depths of the junk drawer.
And Andy moved down the hall to Sam’s old room.
“Sylvester,” Smith called. “What on earth are you up to?”
More of his welcoming whine, but he didn’t appear, eager for a scratch behind the ears.
A floorboard creaked.
Smith took the remaining stairs very carefully. She reached the bottom and her fingers felt for the light switch. “Is someone there. I am a police officer. I’m armed, and backup’s been called.”
The back door rattled shut.
Smith jumped off the bottom step and ran.
She knew exactly where the kitchen light switch was located, and hit it, keeping her body tucked out of sight. She probably should have gone back upstairs for her gun, but it was too late for that now. Lights on, she darted into the kitchen, keeping low, heading for the gap between the refrigerator and the wall. No shots rang out; no one shouted or threw anything.
“This is the Trafalgar City Police,” she said. “Step into the light, with your hands up.”
Only Sylvester obeyed. The big dog stuck his face into Smith’s crotch. She almost screamed.
Footsteps on the stairs. “What on earth is going on?”
“Don’t move, Mom,” Smith yelled.